


November Green

by localswampcrow



Series: Destiel Metaphores [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Castiel/Dean Winchester Poetry, DeanCas - Freeform, Destiel - Freeform, Poetry, casdean - Freeform, poem
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:01:06
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27691796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/localswampcrow/pseuds/localswampcrow
Summary: I still write. Not sure if I’m any better now, but I felt like I had to add more. 5 years later and..... shit is absolutely insane? Just on ever level??This is a callback to my pieces from 5 years ago, and also a poem I wrote about myself recently. I am realizing more and more the ways I identify with Dean, and then also Castiel.Wouldn’t it be wild if Misha was really on here reading our stuff?
Series: Destiel Metaphores [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/262921
Kudos: 1





	November Green

Dust to clay  
Clay to men  
Men to lovers with souls of gold. 

Leave the window shade  
open, let  
in the November light.  
He counts the years he has known  
the morning and nightly prayers  
are heard.  
Heard by the one across the vast void...  
heard in the inches that feel like miles.

He leaves the blinds rolled, fraying at their ends,  
so he might feel the gust of a lifeline.  
Hear the jays over the icy chill of concrete.  
See the feathers long, black but somehow radiating sunshine  
and every reflection of light.  
Hopes if he prays long enough they will reach out and cauterize each of his lacerations. 

No one ever asked him about his writing. The only other being who ever saw it kept a special place in their own heart for the words. 

“I fall asleep  
with queer love congested in my collar  
some nights I guess it might poison me.  
In my dreams I know this.  
So I pray  
twice a day at least.  
November and the ferns still grin their pinate teeth  
like Prussian blushed seaweed gasping for the sun.  
It’s so dark without him.  
The gavel, mine is always glass holding half, or less, than its worth...  
Deep dark clouds in a bottle and when it hits my mouth it’s all too blue.  
Sounding each crack of thunder until I have nothing left but sleep.” 

In his dreams he hears it,  
“You changed me, Dean”  
Over and over  
in the morning he prays.


End file.
